


Homeward Bound

by endlesshour



Series: What's Left When the Dust Settles? [1]
Category: Catch-22 - Joseph Heller
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Goodnight Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28651776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshour/pseuds/endlesshour
Summary: The chaplain punches Colonel Cathcart after Yossarian's departure. This is the aftermath.
Relationships: Robert Oliver Shipman | Albert Taylor Tappman/John Yossarian
Series: What's Left When the Dust Settles? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099751
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Homeward Bound

Never before had the chaplain experienced such exuberance as he did in that moment, his pen zipping across the paper with brilliant fervor. He could barely read the writing in the dimly-lit basement - for with no natural light, it seemed to constantly be ambiguously day or night - but it didn’t make much difference as everything he’d been meaning to say was already in his head. His knuckles were tense and white with the grip he held on the pen, and once he’d finished, he called out to the rather ugly lieutenant with the bulbous nose standing by the door. “May I get a stamp?”

“What for?” The lieutenant demanded. His job was merely to watch the chaplain - or, ex-chaplain Tappman - not to go about retrieving him stamps.

Tappman grinned, his face practically glowing with a confidence the lieutenant didn’t see anymore. “I’ve got to send this letter to my wife, as soon as I can. You see, I want to tell her what’s happened. They think I’m crazy! I’m getting a court-martial, I’m going back. A crazy man isn’t any good in a war, you see, and I’m going to have consequences!”

The lieutenant pinched the corner of paper with a foreboding look on his face, lips drawn taut. His soulless grey eyes scanned the ex-chaplain as if he’d gone mad - which arguably, he had, although the lieutenant wasn’t convinced - and held it warily over the desk. “Have you addressed it?”

The ex-chaplain was quick to assure him that he had, and while he leaned back in the battered excuse for a chair he’d been provided with, the lieutenant took the letter with him out of the room. “I’ll just send it, then,” he said, and the ex-chaplain watched him with beaming pleasure. 

He expelled one breath of contentment. Had he known the consummate relief which would accompany a single punch, he certainly would’ve done it sooner. It hadn’t exactly been a single punch. The ex-chaplain had been able to punch a plethora of people after Yossarian went missing one afternoon several months ago from the Pianosa base, but the only person who seemed to matter had been Colonel Cathcart, who simply didn’t believe the ex-chaplain had guts enough to punch that many of his superiors until he worked his way all the way up the chain of command and punched Colonel Cathcart one night in the officer’s club. It had been a real black eye to Cathcart - both in the metaphorical and literal sense - and the ex-chaplain had been busted down to a private and court-martialed as quickly as possible. He had been deemed as crazy, which resulted in him being sent back home with several plenteous fines as punishment.

* * *

The whole Washington Irving affair orchestrated by Corporal Whitcomb sped along the process, which the ex-chaplain denied partaking in during his court martial. Before the trial even began, they already knew he was guilty - after all, what was the point of prosecuting an innocent man - and the ex-chaplain’s proclamation of innocence simply tacked more offenses onto his already-extensive charge. Still, punching Colonel Cathcart remained the biggest offense, mainly because that one offended Colonel Cathcart the most.

“I’m telling you, Chuck,” Colonel Korn had gritted his teeth, icing his poorly taped-over nose with umbrage, “I’m the third person he’s punched. He hasn’t got the authority, you ought to put a stop to this. It might seem petty if I do it, but you’ve got to out-maneuver him and put him to a court martial.”

The two of them took repose in the officer’s club, watching the ex-chaplain sit alone at a table, his back facing the other men. He didn’t shy away from the large crowds like he used to, switching to spend more time in the presence of others. Cathcart simply didn’t understand it, the chaplain had gone very quickly from a tool to garner feathers in his cap to one tremendous black eye, storming past Colonel Korn into Cathcart’s office to demand the mission count be lowered each time Colonel Cathcart raised it.

Now he’d gone and punched Colonel Korn, and although Colonel Cathcart found himself nearly pitying the other man, Korn could also stand to be knocked down a couple pegs. “I suppose I should do something about him, but what?” Colonel Cathcart asked, scratching a few lengthy stubbles on his chin.

Korn sneered. “I just told you, court-martial him. He’s crazy! First he punched that insufferable Captain Black, then his aide Corporal Whitcomb, and now me. Look, Chuck, a  _ sane _ man doesn’t do that. He’s not even necessary, that Whitcomb fellow can replace him in a jiff.”

“Maybe,” Colonel Cathcart mused over the idea. It was Korn’s idea, after all, and it could be his idea too as soon as he chose to implement it. “You know what? Punching people is insubordination, he has to learn that something like that affects everyone. I’m raising the mission count by five.”

This feather in his cap had a chance of surpassing everything the chaplain had done; they’d be the first squadron to hit ninety-five. From the corner of the room, the chaplain stood up. He didn’t have a particularly imposing figure with his compact shoulders and slim figure, but the light managed to play up his silhouette into someone slightly more formidable of an opponent. He set down the glass of water he’d been drinking which he pretended was vodka whenever someone asked about it. “You’re raising the missions?” he ambled over to Colonel Cathcart, hands tucked neatly by his side.

Colonel Cathcart sat in stupefied silence for a few moments until Colonel Korn elbowed him sharply in the side with a snicker. “He’s talking to you.”

In that moment, Colonel Cathcart found himself wallowing in insecurity. The eyes of the officer’s club felt turned on him, focused on his person, even though no one was looking and conversation proceeded as nothing happened. “I am,” he stood up to utilize his full height, standing an inch or so over the chaplain, “I’m raising them by five.”

“If I may, sir, why?” the chaplain pressed, taking a step forward. He felt a giddy rush of nerves wash over him, but this time he kept talking in his own pusillanimous way rather than backing down like he used to. When Yossarian had been here, the chaplain hadn’t done enough, and now anyone he could’ve remotely considered his friend was gone. They’d nailed him with all the ridiculous Washington Irving business. What, really, would he be risking? “The men have flown so many already, why more?”

Colonel Cathcart laughed with an egregious wheeze, clutching at his side. “Because I said so!”

He shut his eyes for another hearty laugh, his body shaking in all its corpulence. For a second, he managed to forget the chaplain Tappman had been standing there in the first place, loitering around with his fruitless endeavors and pointless demands. That gave an incredibly clear path to the Colonel’s head, which the chaplain utilized to issue a flimsy but effective crank arm right to the center of Cathcart’s face.

In a moment, Colonel Cathcart flew backwards and smashed the back of his head into the knotted wood of the bar. The listless chatter throughout the officer’s club ceased as everyone looked over to see the cause of the tremendous crash and Colonel Korn burst into a bout of laughter as he helped a very embarrassed and beet-red Cathcart back onto his feet. “You…” Colonel Cathcart felt his face heat up in a paroxysm of rage, one hand at his injured face and the other one shaking and pointing at the ex-chaplain, “ _You!_ _YOU did this!”_

The chaplain stood with both hands behind his back, facing Colonel Cathcart without resentment. His heart raced in his chest. He’d dreamed of punching Colonel Cathcart since the day he helped Yossarian escape the squadron, but actually doing it was something else entirely. “I… I did, sir,” he said in shock.

“ _ That’s it! _ You’re getting a court-martial!  _ That’s it!! _ ”

As it turned out, that  _ was _ it.

* * *

The court martial had taken a mere hour, the grand majority of which was spent reading off each and every charge the ex-chaplain could be nailed for. He claimed innocence for as many of them as he could - not that it mattered, but each time he did, regardless of if he was innocent, he received another charge at the end of the list for ‘lying to his commanding officers’. 

There wasn’t much good in keeping the ex-chaplain in a squadron if he was crazy and going to oppose whichever authority figure he served under; Colonel Cathcart refused to have him within ten feet of his person just in case Tappman decided to punch him a second time. The final verdict wound up being to return the ex-chaplain back to the states, which was more than okay with Tappman. He reclined in the trial chair as he watched Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn leave the room, muttering angrily to each other about the terrible disgrace the ex-chaplain had been. It felt good to be a disgrace.

A week later, the ex-chaplain found himself cruising along on a navy ship returning from deployment. He sat rather inconsolably in the brig for the majority of the journey until the fifth day, when cheers erupted from the hallway and a celebration pulled into full throttle. The ex-chaplain didn’t quite know what to make of it. “What’s the celebration for?” he inquired of the guard.

“There’s no celebration.”

“Oh. My mistake. Then, if I may, sir, why is there cheering?”

“I guess they’re glad.”

“Why are they glad?” ex-chaplain Tappman asked, mildly more confused than he was before.

“How should I know? I’m not them, I can’t know what makes a person tick.”

“Are  _ you _ glad?”

“Not particularly, I guess.”

“How do you know they are, then?”

“They’re cheering.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!”

“Could you ask them?”

“ _ Yes. _ ” The guard’s voice adopted a rather ruffled tone. His job was to watch the ex-chaplain, not to go about asking other people questions for him. Still, he stiffly left the room and returned a matter of seconds later with an answer. “Apparently Japan surrendered, we’re returning home for good. The war’s over.”

And it was.

* * *

Many months ago, it didn’t occur to the chaplain that it was possible to get sent home or receive discharge forms. “I keep trying,” Yossarian explained, “I’m the last sane one here, which is why I’m crazy. They won’t ground me. That pot-bellied son of a bitch Cathcart keeps raising the missions. At this rate, I’ll be a dead man by the time I get home, and I don’t like those odds.”

The chaplain didn’t quite know what to say, but he gave Yossarian a reassuring pat on the back all the same. They sat together on the edge of Yossarian’s cot. The large tent felt desolate and  _ de trop _ with Orr’s abandoned little cot and surfeit of modern appliances which were foreign to anywhere else on Pianosa. 

It wasn’t hard to hear Yossarian out with a kind ear, which the chaplain suspected was all he really wanted in the first place - well, besides the lowering of missions, of course. He listened with a concerned expression, occasionally nodding and making noises of affirmation. “Is there,” he started eventually, fumbling his way through the words, “Is there some  _ other _ way you might be able to escape combat?”

Yossarian shook his head. “I can stay in the hospital whenever I want, but there are loonies in there and you never know if you’ll wind up in the sane ward or one of the crazy ones.”

The chaplain didn’t quite know what to say again. If there truly was a God, what was the point of putting someone like Yossarian in a position like that? Did He gain something from allowing this sort of injustice? As far as the chaplain could see, the men hadn’t done anything sufficiently negative to warrant such ire from some heavenly figure. “I’ll keep trying to persuade Cathcart,” said the chaplain, his forlorn gaze shifted to the ground, “I-”

He should’ve liked to tell Yossarian about the fear he felt, the way everyone he knew could stand up to authority far better than him, but it didn’t seem right. “I’ll try”

“I know you’re doing all you can; but you’ve gotta help me. Who else is going to?”

For a moment, the chaplain pondered this. In a moment, he came to the less-than startling realization that if everyone else was enraptured in flying missions, no one else would altercate Colonel Cathcart when he raised the count. “I- I don’t know. I’ll do whatever I can.”

* * *

Now, the ex-chaplain could only hope Yossarian had been able to find some sort of peace, someplace without the hostilities of the American base. He’d be away from his own hostilities soon enough, back at home with his darling, coregeous wife and three small blue-eyed children which he held tightly in his heart although he couldn’t remember their faces. He took a seat in the military office waiting room, patiently awaiting his ride back home.

“Albert Tappman?” a voice called, and the ex-chaplain’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“That’s me! Oh, am I going home? Please sir, tell me, is it time?”

In the door stood a gangly man with a pinched face and an ill-fitting uniform which hung disgracefully off of his body. He glanced down at a clipboard which he held in one hand, a pen in the other. “We’re letting you go,” he said civically.

The ex-chaplain let out a sigh of relief. “When may I take the trip home, sir?”

“There isn’t going to be a trip. We’ll be turning you outside, you can decide where to go from there.”

The ex-chaplain’s genial expression fell from his kind face. “With all due respect, what do you mean, sir?”

“Your wife - or, ex-wife - filed for divorce upon receiving your letter, and intends to get a restraining order from what she has told us. She’s worried about your behavior around the children, you see; you allegedly sounded so pleased with punching people that she doesn’t believe either herself or the children to be safe with a... madman around. We’ll be turning you out to the streets with a pair of civilian clothes. That’s all.”

The ex-chaplain was ashamed for ever wanting and longing for his wife when she’d been uncomfortable. He chastised himself for his desire, for his love, and his thoughtless actions. The room held silence. 

Albert Taylor Tappman sunk back into the chair, which let out a burst of air from a hole in the exterior of the cushioning. His mouth opened like a knot in a board of wood and his eyes stared forth, glazed over in trepidation. His face felt hot and desiccated, the air in the small, bleak waiting room compressing his body. Burning sensations of tears pressing against the back of his eyes overwhelmed him, but he fought them back and steadily assumed his composure. “Thank you sir,” he mumbled, “I’ll be going, now.”

* * *

Night had fallen by the time the ex-chaplain had filled out his release forms, changed into civilian clothes, and been released onto the streets as he’d been promised. He wandered around listlessly, feeling his stomach roar with hunger. There wasn’t much he could buy with the small amount of money he did have, nor anywhere he could go.  _ Who was there left for him? _ In a world so large with so many people, the ex-chaplain felt very much small and alone.

With a start, he remembered.  _ Yossarian. _ He’d promised to see him once more, post-war, but… at best, he was leagues away. Still, the ex-chaplain reasoned, if he didn’t make an effort to seek Yossarian, then he was truly alone. He trudged up to a phone booth, and scanning through a directory, found a name of someone who could help him: the ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen. It had been Milo’s plane which Yossarian stowed away on and Milo and Wintergreen were tight after the merge, it’d only make sense for Wintergreen to know where Yossarian was.

Ex-chaplain Tappman dialed in the number for Wintergreen, and upon hearing him pick up, spoke with fervent excitement. “Hello! I’ve called Wintergreen, yes?”

“Yes, I’m Wintergreen,” said ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, unable to recognize the ex-chaplain’s voice.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Simply wonderful! I must ask you a question: do you know where that Yossarian fellow is? I’ve promised him a visit once the war is over and it’s over, it’s finally over!”

“I can tell Milo to give you his address,” Wintergreen said rather dumbly, “I don’t know, but he’s bound to.”

“Oh, oh yes, that’ll be perfect! Put him on, I’ll write it down! Oh, thank you!”

“Who should I tell him is calling?”

The ex-chaplain thought for a moment. “Washington Irving,” he said firmly, the hint of a smile dancing in his voice, “Tell him it’s Washington Irving.”

* * *

Back in Europe, not so far from the starting point of Pianosa, Yossarian meandered down one of the tight-bricked streets which wove in intricate paths all throughout the town of Cullera, Spain. The brisk breezes ruffled his hair, whistling soundlessly through the lush, radiant green leaves of the trees. The air hung, muggy and warm, although it hadn’t rained for many days and Yossarian shivered, even though it wasn’t cold.

He’d been on the run for a couple months, bending heaven and earth to get out of the possible clutches of Colonel Cathcart’s minascious wrath. The news of the ended war had reached him, but Yossarian still feigned the possibility of returning to the states in case a court martial could come flying out of nowhere and knock him off his mission-exempt pedestal. Besides, he wasn’t just looking after number one now; thanks to Milo he’d found both fortune and misfortune on his path for freedom. Yossarian wondered how it had been for Orr and how it would’ve been if he’d listened to Orr in the first place and decided to fly with him. He was faintly cognizant of the fact that Orr never could have convinced him with his silly laughter and outwardly pointless crash landings, but just imagining if he  _ had _ .

Sooner or later, he’d be able to send a postcard to Orr. He kept writing letters for Orr and storing them in an old indubitably forgotten hatbox he found in the closet of the two-room apartment he decided to rent. Yossarian never sent them in case they were intercepted, but kept them just the same with the intention of sending all of them at once someday. Yossarian didn’t quite know the laws pertaining to mailing from Spain, but surely once the military thoroughly forgot about his existence and he was deemed MIA by someone who hindered the concept of another black eye, he’d be able to dispatch them.

He wondered often about the happenings back at the squadron; if anyone ever did Colonel Cathcart in, if the missions were raised again or stopped being raised simply to spite him, if the chaplain wound up punching anyone like he said he would in a frenzy before Yossarian stole away. Expecting answers to any of these questions was futile, but that seemed to be the price of escaping the stalemate that was the 256th squadron. 

Despite all that, he still had hope that someday, he’d be able to find out.

* * *

“ _ Señor _ , I’ll need your rent for the room soon,” the haggard old lady behested the ex-chaplain. She owned a multitude of the towering brick buildings with rooms for rent. They were kept neat and tidy by three sprightly Spanish girls who rushed around daily, tittering to each other as they darted from building to building to spruce up anything which was in need of sprucing.

Milo had made sure of the ex-chaplain having sufficient rent for a couple days, but beyond that, he didn’t have much else to offer him. “I’m sorry, but you know how it is,” Milo gave a melancholic shrug, “I can’t just give money away for free. Where would that leave my syndicate?”

“I suppose not very well off,” the ex-chaplain admitted.

“Precisely! Now, I can get you there if you’re willing to take the train from Valencia - you see, I have a stop over there to do some trading for these fine leathers and semi-salted olives. You can’t get them anywhere else, don’t you know! See, the leathers purchase for just two dollars a piece, these honest-to-goodness bona-fide hides - and if I buy enough of them, they’ll throw some catgut stock in, too, for three cents apiece. Now, if I buy up the entirety of the catgut stock, I’ll have set up a genuine monopoly which will-”

The ex-chaplain really didn’t mind listening to Milo, but this wasn’t the time for it. Besides, he couldn’t  _ hear _ Milo with the roar of several trucks passing by. “I- I understand,” he bumbled, “Everything you’ve given me already really is wonderful, I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful. I’ll make sure to help you with anything else I can, I-” he nearly promised it, but Milo was a dangerous man to promise to. Instead the ex-chaplain hastily tacked on a bit more. “I’ll aid you when I can!”

Milo laughed. “I’ll take it! I’d pay you out of my pocket, but you know that’d hurt the syndicate too.”

The ex-chaplain wanted to know if Milo paid the syndicate, too.

“No, no! The syndicate benefits when I do, and if I were to be at such a detriment, surely the syndicate would suffer too. See, whenever anyone benefits, so does the syndicate, and whenever anyone’s at a detriment, so’s the syndicate.”

It might have been worth asking Milo about the happenstance if he, the ex-chaplain, were to detriment from something, but no doubt he’d only receive another run-down on syndicate logic which he didn’t really understand anyway. “It makes perfect sense. If there’s anything I can do, you let me know,” he repeated smartly.

“Oh, of course I will. Will I direct business to your Wisconsin home?”

Inside, the ex-chaplain felt a dreadful sense of longing pull at his heart and his pace slowed slightly. The pit in his stomach grew slightly and his throat choked up. He fought it away. “Oh, n-no, sir. When I get there and find Yossarian, just ask him. He’ll know where I am.”

Milo raised an eyebrow and gave a low chuckle, itching zealously at his crooked moustache. He acknowledged the ex-chaplain with one eye, the other one still looking forward. “Sure, I’ll ask him.”

The two men stood in silence for a moment. The ex-chaplain scratched at his head and straightened out the jacket he wore. “Oh, um, Milo,” he began, “Thank you very much, for all you’ve done. And- not just for me. For Yossarian, too.”

“Anything for a friend,” Milo smiled, then paused, “Well,  _ almost _ anything. Besides, Yossarian needed all the help he could get.”

* * *

The ex-chaplain thought back to what Milo had said and gave a silent prayer that he’d find Yossarian safe and sound. The street vendors carried an amiable chatter with one another through the Cullera roads and warped walkways until some chap came along to begin haggling prices back and forth until they ended up with something more expensive when they had begun.

A stone’s throw down the street, a man stood with his back to the ex-chaplain, working with a tomato vendor who seemed both very indignant and dumb when it came to the subject of prices. “I refuse to sell you anything below the price it’s listed for,” he scolded, his arms crossed in a piqued manner, “What the hell kind of business is that? You know, it’s people like you who make selling one hell of a lot more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I didn’t ask you to lower the damn price,” the other man took a step towards the vendor, “I just want to know how much it’s going for.”

“Next thing  _ I _ know,  _ you’ll _ be demanding I lower it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, oh really! Who the hell do you think you are, demanding I lower it?”

“Who the hell do  _ I _ think  _ I _ am? Who the hell do  _ you  _ think  _ you  _ are?”

The vendor lost his footing in the argument and tumbled for a moment. He threw his arms to his sides in a burst of zealous defeat. “I- I don’t know who I am!”

“You sound one hell of a lot like someone I knew,” the other man told him, “He’s dead, though. If I were you, I might as well go be him.”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

“Why the hell wouldn’t you? He’s at least got an identity.”

The vendor thought for a moment. Something felt familiar to him, like  _ deja vu _ . Of what he did know, philosophically, nothing stood morally wrong with being a dead man. Legally, there were some kinks, but the legal system didn’t seem to care too much if he wasn’t anybody, so why should they care if he was somebody? The vendor pressed on the edge of his cart passionately. “Say, what’re the chances I know him? Tell me his name; how’d he die?”

“His name was Cle-”

In that moment, the ex-chaplain recognized what he’d found so familiar about the customer and bounded over with intrepid excitement. “Yossarian?  _ Yossarian! _ It’s you, it’s really you!”

The customer spun around and the ex-chaplain, running as quickly as he could, nearly collided head-on with Yossarian. “It’s you, you’re alive, you made it!” ex-chaplain Tappman gave a brief, shy laugh and stood still for a moment to conciliate himself.

Standing in the presence of someone he knew well brought out a more bashful version of himself and he gave a demure, soft smile, just short of making eye contact with Yossarian. He held his hands in front of himself, fidgeting with the buttons at the bottom of the rayon-wool jacket and twisting at the velvety satin liner. He felt like he ought to say something as Yossarian stared at him for a moment, his cheeks reddening. 

At last, Yossarian did speak, which came as a great relief to ex-chaplain Tappman. “Chaplain…?” he asked, his blank expression blossoming into a bewildered grin, “Is it really you?”

“It’s me!” the ex-chaplain glanced at the ground. He hadn’t anticipated actually finding Yossarian, despite constantly thinking about it after being cast out onto the streets, “I’m not a chaplain anymore, you don’t have to call me that. But it’s okay! I’ve come and I’m alive! Oh, I was so worried about you, but you look better than ever!”

Yossarian hadn’t heard him. “It’s you!” he cried, “Why, I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Why yes,” the ex-chaplain smiled again and gave his feet a sheepish stare, “Here I am! You’re here too, you made it! You’re safe! I didn’t expect to- to find you- but you’re here! Didn’t Milo tell you I’d be coming?”

“He gave me a quick visit yesterday, but he didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Well,” the ex-chaplain nibbled on his lip, “I’m here! See, the fighting has ended at last, I told you I’d come! Please, may we take a walk, or… something? I’d like to know how you’ve been, and well, everything that happened after you left. Oh, do tell me!”

“Tell me your story too. I’ve been wondering how that hellhole of a base carried on.”

The vendor watched with contentment as the two men headed down the road together. He pinched one of the large, ripe tomatoes between his fingers and shook his head. Maybe if he was fortunate, they’d come back and buy some of the bushel. He flicked it back into the barrel with mock frustration and lolled back on the splintered wood beneath the faded green-and-red canopy of the corner store.

* * *

The heat of the day had risen, the air dense but pleasant around the ex-chaplain and Yossarian. Despite the impending fall which chased after September like a lion after its prey, the rich, dark grass held blossoming flowers. Loud chirping calls of street pigeons and sparrows kept the atmosphere alive and brimming with energy. Eventually, Yossarian found it in him to begin the conversation that they’d started wordlessly. “Milo helped you get here?” he asked, “How’d you manage to find him?”

“I called that ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen fellow after they sent me out of the military headquarters in New York, he got your address from Milo and aided me in getting here.”

“Why, didn’t you have to go home?” Yossarian faced him in astonishment, “Aren’t you married?”

The ex-chaplain didn’t know what to say, but he had a long story and as much time as Yossarian was willing to listen. He poured his heart out and told everything. The moment he watched Yossarian disappear in Milo’s storage plane along the horizon. The melancholy fascination of if he’d ever see Yossarian again; one of the few people who recognized that he was more than a chaplain, more than the simple shell of a man. He let salty tears he’d kept in for too long flow down his cheeks when he spoke of his wife and learning he’d lost her. At last, he recounted the ebullience of running into Yossarian in the road by mere happenstance.

Once he’d finished, Yossarian decided he wanted to know what to call the ex-chaplain.

The ex-chaplain hadn’t thought of that. He wasn’t a chaplain any longer and Yossarian hadn’t called him ‘Tappman’ even when they were serving. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “Why, it doesn’t seem right for you to call me Tappman.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Yossarian agreed amiably.

“And certainly not chaplain, that’s not right either, is it?”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

“...Albert?” he asked, “Why, that sounds so silly! It’s as if we were children. Then again… is that an alright name?”

“It’s your name,” said Yossarian.

“It  _ is _ my name,” the ex-chaplain repeated, “I guess it’s all I’ve got. I haven’t quite got any other names which would fit me. I suppose it’s an alright name, then!”

“It is,” Yossarian agreed again, fixing his gaze on a small patch of white begonias.

They spoke a bit more until the ex-chaplain asked Yossarian how he’d been, preparing to listen to the details which had seemed so arcane to him until earlier that day.

“I made it pretty easily through Rome thanks to the extra money from Danby. The streets once night falls become nightmarish and there’s more than one thing I wish I never saw. You know that kid I set out to find? Nately’s whore’s sister, the little one. See, I didn’t get to Sweden because of her; Danby was damn right on it being a geographic impossibility. It really was a stroke of luck, I happened upon her in an alleyway and brought her with me. Damn kid was pretty dismayed about not following her sister’s profession, but really, it’s for the best.”

“Where is she now?” the ex-chaplain asked gently.

“Oh, she’s still with me. Actually, she’s the only reason we have a place to stay, since she chose to work shifts in the restaurant. I spent so much time finding her, I’ll be damned if I send her back out onto the streets.”

Almost three hours passed in the park until the sun had begun to cast long shadows onto the fertile grounds and Yossarian decided he needed to head back and buy tomatoes from the vendor for dinner.

“Do you have to go?” he asked the ex-chaplain almost instinctively.

“Well- no, I don’t really… my purpose for coming here was really just to see you again, I haven’t anything else I need to-”

For once in a long while, Yossarian smiled without cunning or malice or deviant excitement. “Why don’t you join me, then?”

Three tomatoes remained as the men walked back to Yossarian’s apartment rooms. The remainder of the tomatoes had been bought up, and in his hand, the vendor cheerfully held a wad of currency and a slip of paper with the words ‘ _ M&M Enterprises’ _ .

* * *

Although the sun hadn’t fully slipped behind the horizon, the moon peeked out from behind a tree in the far east. The little apartment rooms Yossarian had were small and grimey despite apparent efforts to clean them out. Warm ocherous light streamed in through two large windows with drawn-up window blinds. To the left of the door nestled a compact kitchen and wood stove; beyond that stood an unmade bed with the white linens cast somewhat on the floor. Another room was adjacent to that, likely containing another bed, the ex-chaplain decided.

Although the place was unkempt, it seemed undeniably cozy. Yossarian dropped the tomatoes down beside a box of Demaco and a few lackluster glass bottles. The ex-chaplain had forgotten what preparing a dinner had been like; maybe it had been years since he last had. Dinner preparations began almost flawlessly, a basin of water was set boiling on the wood stove and the tomatoes rinsed off for slicing.

“You have a nice place here,” commented the ex-chaplain, “You stay here with the girl?”

Yossarian nodded. “Yeah. I pretend I’m her father so it doesn’t look suspicious. The bedroom in the back is hers, the one here is mine. I’ve got to get a job one of these days,” he sighed, “Where have you arranged to stay?”

“It’s just down the road. It’s a nice place, but it’s far from a home, like- well- this.”

Silence fell around the room, although for a second it was welcomed. “I wouldn’t call this a home,” Yossarian plucked a knife from the tabletop to cut tomatoes, “Maybe someday I’ll have one but-” he froze, glancing down at the tomato, the red seedy guts spilling out over his fingers, “Could you-?”

“I’ve got it,” the ex-chaplain tiptoed over and took the knife, “If you don’t mind- what were you saying?”

“Maybe someday I’ll have a home. This place isn’t one. I guess it’s just been getting through each day and staying strong for the kid. I’m safe here as long as the Army doesn’t find me. Life here isn’t great, but it’s good. I don’t have to worry about my head getting blown off or getting shot up with flak or fighting that bastard Cathcart on a mission raise. My responsibilities, my duties, my life - they’re all right here.”

The ex-chaplain thought for a moment, trying to remember if he’d had this conversation before. It occurred to him both that he couldn’t possibly have and that he must have, and he dismissed the notion out of hand. Again, he felt that terrible sense of desire and longing in his heart, but this time it wasn’t for his ex-wife and three little beloved children of whom he’d never speak to nor see again. He yearned hopelessly for something else that he couldn’t put his finger on, and that inability to parse it made the ex-chaplain nervous.

“May I ask a question?” he began, pushing the tomatoes to the side.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“We haven’t had a conversation like this before, have we? I mean, I feel like we have, but I don’t think we have.”

Yossarian gave a nonchalant shrug and went to ensure the water was boiling away on the stove. “We haven’t.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be right back, could you start up the pasta?” He waited for the ex-chaplain’s affirmative nod before heading out the door to check on Nately’s whore’s sister and make sure she had sufficient food for the evening. “See you soon, chaplain!”

“Albert.”

“See you soon, Albert!”

The door slammed shut. “See you soon, Yossarian,” the ex-chaplain murmured in astonishment before making his way over to the cast iron.

* * *

The evening passed with only marginally more amusement than the others before it and all too soon, the ex-chaplain had to head back to his own room. There wasn’t a place to stay  _ with _ Yossarian, so the idea simply evaded the question. “Fath- Albert?” Yossarian asked when they stood by the door.

“Yes, Yossarian?”

“I’ve thought of something you could do for me.”

“After all this time?” the ex-chaplain teased, “I don’t know I’d be much good with getting you candies or books or toys.”

“It’s not candies or books or toys,” Yossarian teased back, “It’s something else.”

“Oh, then by all means! Do tell me what it is.”

“Do you think I could,” Yossarian found himself acutely aware of the question he’d longed to ask for months, yet never did, “give you a kiss goodnight?”

“Well- I really wouldn’t mind- but it doesn’t-” the ex-chaplain mumbled, averting his eyes to the cuckoo clock hanging motionless on the wall, “I'd like that, really- but- can you-” he swallowed hard, “Is that even  _ allowed? _ ”

“Who’s here to not allow it?”

* * *

That night, the ex-chaplain had a jaunty bounce in his step and wore a brilliant smile as he headed back to his own room. He left the trepidations of the goodnight kiss to the next day, and for once his sleep didn’t include a single thought of his wife and children. 

Each day passed with semblance to the last; in the mornings the ex-chaplain set out to call on Yossarian and they spent the day together trying to find Yossarian a job. Many jobs were available, yet Yossarian could never manage to land one with any success. He often appeared as the best and only candidate and would’ve made an excellent hire regardless of the job - none of the owners could deny that - but he wasn’t the sort of man they were looking for. After each day of fruitless searching, the ex-chaplain and Yossarian headed back with upbeat weariness to share dinner - and come the evening, a single-yet-passionate goodnight kiss before the ex-chaplain left to his rooms. 

A couple weeks carried on like this; it had become a sort of antagonizing routine, and they both rejoiced in it.

* * *

“Wine for you?”

“Oh, no, it’s alright. Maybe just a tiny bit. It’s really alright, don’t worry about it.”

The thick red liquid was reminiscent of the variety they had in the officer’s club back on Pianosa, and the ex-chaplain swirled it around in the glass with demure like he used to. Dinnertime had come and gone. The girl returned to the room and Yossarian dismissed her to her room to sleep. The peach-pink cuckoo clock in the hall chirped twelve times and in spite of himself, the ex-chaplain yawned. 

“I don’t know the first thing about taking care of a kid,” Yossarian confessed with a laugh, “They may have all called me yellow, running away like that, but taking care of someone else is  _ work! _ ”

“It can definitely be sometimes,” the ex-chaplain replied with a giggle which he hadn’t meant to let slip out, “I mean- it depends on the person.”

Yossarian took a heavy swig of his wine and found himself falling in love with the ex-chaplain all over again. “Did you have a hard time?”

“When?”

“Why, when you were taking care of children!”

The ex-chaplain quirked his lips up with a resentful, shy smile. “Sometimes. My eldest child was the fussier of the older two, he was stubborn and set in his ways. It was worth it in the end, though. To see their smiles in the morning at breakfast, to hear excited voices when I came home from work.”

Before, recounting his family had been bittersweet, his heart ready to burst with feverish desire and his head pounding as he pictured each miserable peril which could’ve befallen them. It wasn’t like that this time. He glanced up at Yossarian, still looking at him intently as though he was waiting for the ex-chaplain to divulge more of his life.  _ Yossarian? _ Listless yearning and desires of days, weeks, and months prior dropped their meaning on the ex-chaplain, and finally it dawned on him.

“Cha- Albert?” Yossarian shook the ex-chaplain gently by his arm until he came to his senses and looked about skittishly. 

“Yes? Oh, it’s gotten quite late, hasn’t it?”

“Do you have to leave?” Yossarian asked sadly.

“Well- I don’t, really. If I’m imposing on your hospitality, I’ll go,” the ex-chaplain reassured quickly, although he didn’t want to leave. If anything, he wished for the opposite, and thoughtlessly said a small prayer that he wouldn’t have to go. 

“Why, you’re not imposing at all,” Yossarian replied just as quickly.

The ex-chaplain nodded and moved back to where he’d been leaning against the counter, tracing his fingers over the dusty patterns on the edges of wood cabinets.

* * *

Yossarian took stock of him affectionately. Despite the fact that the ex-chaplain’s innocence had indubitably been compromised, he still wore the benign expression he had that very first day in the hospital. He ached to protect him, to shut the door and keep the evils of Cathcarts and Korns and Whitcombs far away from the ex-chaplain. He still lived in fear of his life, but now it wasn’t so dire and demanding of his attention. 

“I’ve only got one more night’s rent,” the ex-chaplain murmured out of the blue.

“That’s fine,” Yossarian repeated, pouring himself another hearty drink, “If you’d like to stay, you’re welcome to.”

“Oh- you… you mean overnight? But isn’t there insufficient space here?”

“There’s a bed over there.”

The ex-chaplain felt his cheeks heat up. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Who said anyone was sleeping on the floor?”

The ex-chaplain thought about this. “It’s alright with you?

“More than alright.”

The night didn’t seem so dark anymore. “Maybe we could find a home in the countryside too, and raise the girl together and…” the ex-chaplain’s dreamy tone faded out as he realized what he was saying - rather than keeping merely to his thoughts - and with shock began to back-peddle in embarrassment. 

He was an anabaptist, but since the war, had he lapsed? There were so many questions left unasked surrounding his religion and the fighting and suffering had left him for worse. Could he truly believe in something intangible? Could this being of heavenly but intangible prestige have any effect on his world? Had He deserted him? The ex-chaplain nearly buried his head in his hands to diminish the stature of his thoughts. 

“Father?” 

The ex-chaplain looked up. “Albert,” he mumbled unobtrusively, “May I help you with something, Yossarian?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“I’d like to go looking for that place in the countryside tomorrow.”

The ex-chaplain nearly jumped out of his skin with elated incredulity. “ _ Tomorrow?!” _

“Tomorrow.”

That night - the first of all the nights - it was the ex-chaplain who initiated the goodnight kiss. He leaned in with a sort of timorous grace, meeting Yossarian halfway with a gentle hand cupping the side of his face. There wasn’t any more existential dread surrounding the thought of it, only a warm embrace and a sort of solace neither had found for a long time. Yossarian intertwined their hands and pulled away, only to tug the ex-chaplain along to shut off the lights before kissing him again and holding him close.

Nothing felt certain anymore - save  _ one _ thing: soon, they’d both be home.


End file.
